


that which bears repeating

by vegetas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: in the midst of crozier's seclusion thomas receives an unexpected gift





	that which bears repeating

It’s Dr. McDonald, of all people, who gives him the tin of Wilson’s. For the life of him, Jopson is too tired to know what it is at first, wrapped, courteously as it is, in a clean white handkerchief. Only when McDonald smilingly insists for him to open it, nudging at him like a father on Christmas morning, and reveal the white  _ ROWS OF SHARROW _ label, does Jopson understand and let his eyes go wide. 

 

“Since you have so clearly earned it,” Dr. McDonald says with an air of playful understatement, putting his hand on Jopson’s shoulder and clenching it in his warm grip. “I thought you could use a bit of a prize.”   
  
“Oh,” Thomas breathes, still surprised at the gesture. “Thank you, Sir -,” 

 

“And, I have another I am happy to part with if you should grow tired of that blend,” McDonald interrupts, giving his shoulder another squeeze.

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Thomas says again, rocking with the motion of McDonald as he moves to pat his back once, then twice. 

 

“Think nothing of it my dear boy,” he chuckles, waving off the Steward’s plaudits. “Tis’ the season of giving, after all. And I know that the captain would articulate his own thanks, if he were able.”

 

Jopson nods, allowing himself to wince a smile at the thought. 

  
“Then, I shall see you right on schedule tomorrow, hopefully with a bit more of a spring in your step,” The doctor sighs, throwing Jopson a cheerful wink as he turns to go, his kit clanking with bottles where it swings in his hand. 

 

Alone now in the midst of the Great Room, Thomas listens for any noise from the captain, and once assured he is still asleep, he slowly peels the handkerchief back more fully to look at it again. It is, as it was, still a tin of Wilson’s. He gently turns it around in his hand, feeling the sift of the contents as he tips it this way and that before he levels it once more to gently unscrew the top. It pops off, and he peers into it - the fine silt of the tobacco inside - and the bouquet drifting up to his nose.

 

“Was that Doctor McDonald, just now?”

 

Thomas starts, looking up immediately to where Lieutenant Little is hovering at the door. His tired face, more hound-eyed and bedraggled by the day, is unexpectedly animated while waiting for Thomas’ response, and he slides the panel open more with a rattle of its track, stepping through and minding that it closes softly behind him.

  
“Sir,” Thomas says sternly, beginning to clumsily screw the cap back on the tin so that he may go and shoo Little out  and herd him somewhere else to conversate - the Wardroom, perhaps. 

 

He should have known better, honestly, than let himself become preoccupied. Between the Lieutenants and Mr. Blanky  _ and _ Captain Fitzjames there is the need for constant vigilance as they all prodding and pacing around, sensing for an  _ in _ each time Thomas drops his guard. McDonald’s merry habit of whistling everywhere he goes does not help, summoning at least one or  _ all _ of them like gulls mobbing for scraps. 

 

“What’s that,” Little says, stepping further inside and Thomas’ eyes attempt to scald him from his post just on the other side of the table lashed to the wall.

 

“ _ Sir _ ,” he reiterates, but Little ignores it, brushing aside Thomas’ prickling and throwing a cautious look to the closed door of Crozier’s berth.  

 

With Fitzjames Thomas has the excuse of supreme authority when it comes to revealing the goings-ons in that inner sanctum of Crozier’s recovery; denying  _ Erebus’ _ Captain  his report, no matter how skinny it is, would be heresy. Thankfully Fitzjames affords him the courtesy of writing things down - the belly-drag of Crozier’s improvements -  to send off with Blanky, or Little, or whatever pour soul is set out between the ships.

 

When he does deign to visit Fitzjames minds his manners and goes no further than the Wardroom, treating the cave of the Great Cabin as Thomas’ dominion for the time being. 

 

Not that  _Erebus'_ Captain can't nip like a bitch scruffing her pup when his mood sours with impatience.

 

_ What  _ is  _ the difference, Jopson!  _ Fitzjames had grit, knuckles rapping on the table, in the first dismal days.  _ In discussing it only with me or to the rest of us who were there _ _   -  _ _ it is not as if we have rolled the stone before Christ's tomb - _

 

_ Be easy on him, Sir,  _ Blanky interjected, knowing the leashed serenity of Thomas’ face was not as telling as the taught clench of his folded hands. _W_ _ e are  _ all _ concerned over Francis, but we've put our faith in Thomas, and he must go about it however he sees fit. _

 

_ I’m sorry, Jopson,  _ Fitzjames sighed after the outburst, rubbing his high forehead.  _ I understand your marriage to his privacy. I respect it...It’s as Mr. Blanky says: we are all worried... _

 

Little looked at him from his seat at the table, sympathetic. Thomas felt it, more than saw, for the Lieutenant’s dark eyes always feel heavy as two pieces of slack rock being tossed at his feet when they find him. 

 

_ Terror’s _ second has not touted his rank for any gain and yet finds the most luck in prying what he wants from the Steward.    
  


It is, in fact, his deference on the matter, his silent ongoing solidarity, that coaxes Thomas into letting him pick at the hermetic seal surrounding Crozier. In other words, Little is spoiled with his knowledge. Unlike Fitzjames, he already knows the chinks in Jopson’s routines - the few moments each day where he might catch him and  _ have a word _ . It is a well-rehearsed dance. 

 

They are not strangers to each other’s confidence; Little has long been accessing Thomas, so to speak, over the course of this journey. 

 

He knew that Jopson was more than the hand-wringing errand boy other men in his position might have considered him to be. For years now they have been lines strung from one another - _Erebus_ to Little to Jopson to _Terror_.  A logistical symbiosis known only to themselves.

 

There were many times, in fact, that Jopson dared to think the Lieutenant found him invaluable for his ability to make suggestions to Crozier, even when it was only a matter of quoting Little verbatim. He treaded impossibly close to telling him such in the bleakest moments, words circling the notion with befitting  _ thank yous _ but his eyes and posture imploring  _ we are in a fine mess, you and I, but at least we are together.  _

 

Thomas is still not sure whether it should have made him proud or more anxious to be drawn to the Lieutenant’s side under such circumstances. He doesn’t even know how he might have responded to any flattery, or proper intimations of their unexpected camaraderie. In the end he could only meet it where it was, offering his help when invoked - another instrument in the greater navigation. 

 

That is how he would prefer it to be. The reality is more slippery. 

The sight of Little should not be so welcoming to him, nor friendly; it goes against his strictest mandates and opposes the natural order of things. The only company of his concern is the Captain. It's a grueling reminder, but an important one. 

 

The Lieutenant should not look so unaware, either, that he is exploiting something in Thomas with his tendency to happen upon him in these weakened moments, softening him with familiarity. Any other person and Thomas would have spit like a cat,  _ insisted  _ more - 

 

“He is resting,” Thomas whispers, canting his back so he is between Little and Crozier’s berth, yet another few layers of wool and flannel and broadcloth. 

 

Little is sheepish, eyes flicking obediently from the door to Thomas’ hands have fumbled closing up the tin. 

 

“Wilson’s?” His brow furrows.

 

Thomas imagines he must have thought it some elixir and come to investigate  - his honest incredulity is a distraction to them both.

 

“Yes,” Thomas answers, after a moment, the fight leaving as quickly as it came. He’ll explain if only to prevent any other ideas. “Doctor McDonald gave it to me,” he mutters, a stray piece of hair falling as he ducks his head only to be tucked back into place. 

 

Little tilts his head over Thomas’ hand so he can look down into the tin. 

 

“To help keep you up?” he barks and Thomas shoots him a warning glare at his loudness before shrugging noncommittally. 

 

_ That _ had not exactly occurred to him. McDonald was being kind, he realizes at once, in not insinuating anything so outright and offering it only as a gift. Leave it to Little to barrel past pretense.

 

Thomas knows he is exhausted, but doesn't feel it until the very ends of the dark and sunless days when he cannot see nor think straight in the face of it anymore. By that point his brain has become something similar to dregs at the bottom of a teacup - pulpy and sore with thoughts. He finds sleep in odd times and positions, picking up an hour here, a minute there, often while posted on the stool next to Crozier’s bunk, nodding forward till the sensation of falling or Crozier’s moans punch him awake. 

 

His fatigue is written on his face, perhaps even in his carriage, when he is not being properly  _ manic _ over tending to the Captain. The glances of himself he’s caught in the dark window of the Great Cabin, the glass-doored cabinets, and even his own mirror, are positively  _ ghoulish _ . He's pallid, dark bruises ringing his red, weepy eyes. It’s all he can do to part his hair and keep up with his shave. 

 

Standing beside the captain one would think him pink-cheeked as a new bride, but no one else has  _ seen _ the captain outside McDonald. That much he has been sure of. There is only Thomas haunting _ Terror's  _ Great Cabin  like some kind of wraith. It is not the most inspiring of images, and when the mates and men chance a look at him it is decidedly _not_  with confidence.

Jopson could nearly say he adores at such time, seeing his bulk in the corner of his eye, or bullying through crowded backs to break up the tension. 

Occasionally fate shines brighter still and the Lieutenant is around to guard him like a sheepdog so he is not flea-bitten with questions or any suspicious offhand remarks as he wrings the last few moments from Mr. Diggle's stove, gulping coffee. Sometimes he’ll even take it upon himself to boot a boy off his haunches to haul away the pails of sick and bring up fresh water while Thomas saves his breath wolfing biscuits in a half-lidded stupor.

 

“I’ve only ever smoked,” he admits. “But - I haven’t the time, and the scent hangs on and is nauseating...” 

 

Little glances up, gathering what he will from the statement.    
  


With anyone else Jopson would be self conscious of sounding selfish, but with Little there is only a pathetic kind of humor. The steward is in a sorry position, but to be denied even a cigarette? Things are truly tragic. 

  
“Wilson’s is good,” Little goes on, being sure to monitor the volume of his voice. “I prefer Gawith, myself, but this one  you won’t have to switch too often,” he adds, and Thomas is not sure if he is making believe the half smile carving slightly into Little’s cheek, but he prefers to think it is there. It is better than pity. “Here - ,” 

 

While Thomas looks on, he takes a pinch of it between his thick fingers and gently flips over his other hand, thumb sloping up - Thomas can barely make it out, but there is a slight indentation, a natural trough, where he sets the pile before bringing it gently to his nose, sniffing. 

 

“Not bad,” he says, swiping once with his thumb and this time Thomas is certain he sees him smile flashing behind his hand. “Perfume is good.” His dark brow raise and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he considers it. 

 

 _Pare-fume_. It ring about his ears, a surreptitious delight, sweeping away any trace of his earlier upset over the intrusion. He's heard nothing but McDonald's jaunty clip and Crozier's fevered slurring all day and the revelation of Little's rolling voice is like pouring the cleanest warm water over his head. 

 

“It’ll take you a bit of getting used to,” The Lieutenant drawls, not noticing Thomas dimpling. “But just go gently - no snorting or else you’ll sound like Neptune, or sneeze it everywhere and that’s a waste.”

 

Thomas nods. He’s seen plenty of men do it before - men of quality - gentlemen, and Officers, with their fine boxes and little delicate spoons and sniffer that cost more than the entirety of his advanced salary. 

 

“Give it a go,” Little entreats, and Thomas feels him knock his elbow lightly with his own. There is a light to him that Thomas has only spied now and then - a mother-loved wholesomeness that opens his face and his voice on rare occasions when he and the other officers are sharing an in-joke, or when he accepts his humorously bad losses at backgammon.

 

It’s strange be basking in the full sun of it instead of catching a beam as it ricochets off of somewhere or someone else.

 

Thomas begins delicately copying what Little has done and Little’s smile grows real, digging further into his cheek. 

 

“Easy,” he chuckles, taking nearly half of Thomas’ pinch for himself off the back of his hand. “Too much will dry you out - and don’t get it too far back, just right on the inside -,” he takes this pinch just as quickly as this first, and is able to keep talking as he does, bewildering to Thomas, who brings the back of his hand to his own nose, bowing his neck slightly. 

  
“Yes, now simply inhale - gently, gently now,” Little’s hand hovers near Thomas’ wrist but Thomas is clever and does as he’s told. 

 

His face immediately wrinkles in objection and Little laughs outright, showing his neat teeth. Thomas does not sneeze, but exhales long and slow through his mouth. He forgets to scold him over that laugh; the ice groans and scrapes loudly outside, masking all other noise that might disturb the Captain’s fitful slumber.

  
“It certainly does smell of roses,” Thomas comments, rubbing his nose which is now itching slightly. The floral scent is far more prominent than what he imagined, with the nuttier roast of the tobacco itself laying just underneath. It isn’t unpleasant, but it is strange. Both, he thinks, are better than the scents he’s been audience to as of late. 

  
“Now, if you’re up on deck and it’s a gale, here’s what you do,” Little instructs, moving much closer to him, as though there is a real wind at their backs and he means to shield them from it. His voice is buoyant, even as it pulls lower, hugging close around Thomas’ head. He takes Thomas’ hand fully in his own, manipulating it till his index finger is curled around the flat nail of his thumb to make a small box shape. Thomas cannot help but notice how different their hands are, Thomas’ long-fingered and narrow, Little’s thicker, folding into a fist fit for the boxer’s ring. 

 

“Hold it like that, see, with your thumb -  _ that’s it _ . Brilliant,” he praises, and Thomas cannot help but preen. “Now, just put the pinch right in that dip on the edge of your thumb nail and bring it up - keeps it from blowin’ about,” he guides Thomas’ hand to his nose once more and Thomas, in a moment of naked ignorance, looks to him for direction. 

 

“Ah, tight, now, like a seal,” Little says, pushing up slightly on Thomas’ wrist, their eyes locking. The Lieutenant’s face glows. and Thomas eyes snap back down to the blur of his hand. 

 

He sniffs again, trying to impersonate Little with as much delicacy as he can muster.    
  


“You’re a natural,” Little grins, patting heavily on Thomas’ shoulder as Doctor McDonald had earlier, though Little’s is not the light grip of the physician’s assistant but more a firm paw, like when Neptune jumps up onto his shoulders him first thing in the morning, bathing Thomas to ask for breakfast.

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Thomas says, sniffing slightly again and taking just the corner of the handkerchief to blot at his nose. He feels it, now. His head buzzing agreeably with the nicotine and his entire body feels lighter. “For the tutorial.”   
  
“Bah,” Little huffs, gripping a handful of Thomas’ jumper at the collar in a sudden, playful, shake that urges a surprised laugh from the steward. “I’m jealous. My first time I went at it like a hog and I sneezed so hard I twisted my neck and could not turn my head for a week.” 

  
His hand falls away, but the Lieutenant’s eyes are shining as they bear on him with the pleasure that only comes from sharing ones more charming embarrassments with another.

 

“That must have been a sight,” Thomas says, coughing dryly and dabbing at his eyes now.

 

“They never let me forget it,” Little agrees and without a word he takes one last pinch for himself, still chuckling at what Thomas assumes is still that half-spoken recollection.  

 

“They?” Thomas asks, blinking, eyes focusing on Little’s face where he sees a bit of the snuff has gathered just on his lip in a fine dusting. 

  
“My older brothers -,” Little begins to say. The thought of Lieutenant Little, so usually calm and unimpressed by  _ most  _ silliness, being harangued and pestered by an older brother, is striking. Thomas takes another breath, invigorated,  but for all the help of the Wilson’s to his wits he stupidly cannot pull his eyes from the smudge on his face just over his cupid’s bow.

 

“Here, Sir,” Thomas says, automatically, and Little’s head rears back as Thomas unconsciously moves the handkerchief to swipe at his mouth. 

 

Little looks down in shock and Thomas realizes too late what he’s done.

  
“Begging your pardon, Sir,” he rushes, snapping his hand back and immediately spinning the top of the lid down onto the tin. “Force of habit,” he rasps, trying not to stammer. 

  
“Seems I am still at the mercy of others,” Little says, preventing him from having to explain himself and Thomas chances to look and finds Little is smiling again, at his boots now, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Though yours is  _ much _ kinder,” he says quietly, mouth twitching when he catches Thomas’ eye. 

 

“I - certainly try,” is all Thomas can muster, feeling dizzy - too aware of everything going on now. Something settles on Little’s features that has been hinting there all along. It is undoubtedly affection. 

 

They are interrupted by the dull clanging of bells and both of them remember themselves.    
  
“Sir, I must remind you,” he murmurs, looking apologetically at Little instead of accusingly. “That - with the Captain - it is important to maintain a bit of distance.”   
  
“Yes,” Little says, clearing his throat. “Yes, yes - I’ll leave you to it,” he concedes, all business, bowing his head and beginning to back away. 

 

As though he cannot help himself he pauses just a half a second more, casting a look at the tin parceled in Thomas’ hands, and his mouth quirks. Thomas wonders if he is not remembering the past in that moment so much as transcribing a new memory to file among the others - the time he helped the captain’s steward, no, Thomas Jopson, with his _R_ _ ows of Sharrows _ .

 

Something he might recite later with that happy gleam in his sweet eyes like a dab of cream, perhaps even to his brothers. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this yesterday because i was distracting myself from a particularly sad anniversary and additionally because i can't get enough of these two goons. 
> 
> (this is inspired Loosely on @dancain's great tumblr tags about thomas and edward's off-camera dependency on each other and also simply because their fic is really good and i love it)
> 
> un beta'd, i live & die by my own sword - please pardon any inaccuracies as alvvays <3


End file.
